


give us this day

by takingoffmyshoes



Series: the fight that will give you the right (to be free) [4]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Will I ever be stopped?, light angst and heavy fluff imo, unlikely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 17:25:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19381342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takingoffmyshoes/pseuds/takingoffmyshoes
Summary: Not long after returning to Paris, d’Artagnan is forced to confront memories of Spain in unexpected ways.Takes place early in "everything that makes you (who you are)"





	give us this day

**Author's Note:**

> consider this the concept art/backstory for the much shorter and equally unasked-for "fight” ‘verse [snippet](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16192865/chapters/38168201) in éclats

“Has France always been this cold?” d’Artagnan grouses one day in early autumn. The season had arrived seemingly overnight, as a warm September gave way to a damp and chilled October. Even today, with the sun shining brightly in a cornflower sky, the cold seems to seep in through his layers of clothing and settle against his skin. Everyone else seems perfectly comfortable, but d’Artagnan has his arms folded tightly up against his chest to try to keep from shivering.

They’re taking advantage of the rare sunshine to walk through the gardens, just him and Constance and the royal family, Louis and the Queen each holding the Dauphin by a hand and helping him stomp along on unsteady legs. 

Louis turns over his shoulder to flash d’Artagnan a grin. “Anne used to ask the exact same thing,” he says. “Even after she’d been here for years and years and years.”

“The summers get so warm,” Anne protests, but with a smile. “I would spend all summer forgetting about winter, and then all winter waiting for summer. And you’re Gascon, aren’t you? You would have grown up with milder winters.”

“That’s true,” he allows. It’s not that he’s grown accustomed to Spain, just that he’s never had a chance to grow accustomed to Paris.

Still, he shivers.

⚜

“Are you still cold?” Constance asks the next morning. He’s traded his linen shirt for a woolen one and pulled a heavy doublet on over it, but it feels as though the stone of the palace is pulling all the warmth from the air, and he can’t suppress the occasional hard shudder.

“Are you not?” he counters, looking askance at the light shawl draped loosely around her shoulders, seemingly more for fashion than for warmth.

Constance’s eyes narrow at that, and she reaches up to rest a hand against his cheek. He hisses and jerks back: her hand is like ice. “I think you have a fever,” she says, sounding concerned. “Do you feel sick at all?”

He shakes his head. “Just cold.”

She withdraws her hand, but doesn’t look quite convinced. “All right,” she says. “But be careful. I know things have been...difficult, for you, recently, and I’m sure the queen won’t mind if you need a few days.”

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I wouldn’t put the Dauphin at risk if I knew I were ill.”

Constance gives him a tight smile. “It’s not the Dauphin I’m worried about.”

⚜

By the end of the day, he’s a liar.

The headache that had started before lunch with the Dauphin’s shrieking tantrum has settled behind his eyes and grown until his entire face is throbbing with it, and the chills have begun to alternate with periods of nauseating heat. 

He skips dinner in favour of turning in early, hoping – perhaps foolishly – that he’ll feel better in the morning.

He doesn't. 

He wakes up sticky with sweat and trapped by bed linens that hadn't felt nearly so heavy the night before, and every breath seems to grate against his lungs. Simply sitting up is enough to make him light-headed and leaden; he sits for long minutes on the edge of the bed, elbows on knees and head hanging low, waiting for the dizziness to pass and the exhaustion to fade. It doesn't. They don't. He's still trying to work himself up to standing – an effort that is most certainly doomed to failure, but he has to try – when a hand lands on his shoulder. He looks up, and blinks: Aramis, crouched before him, looking worried. 

“Constance asked me to check on you,” Aramis says softly, before d'Artagnan can ask. “I'm glad she did. Come on, back in bed.” Aramis stands and guides him back down to the mattress, then lays a palm against his cheek and clucks. D'Artagnan can't quite bring himself to be embarrassed by the way he presses into the touch, but he certainly doesn't whine when it's taken away.

Still, Aramis shushes him as he brushes some of the hair back from his forehead. “I'll have some water brought in,” he says, “and I'll tell the Queen that you're ill.”

“No, don't—” he coughs, and his chest burns. “Not the Queen,” he manages. “She'll worry. Tell Louis. Tell Henri. He'll understand.”

“You think he _won't_ worry?” Aramis asks lightly, but d'Artagnan shakes his head.

“He'll understand,” he says again, unable to articulate it more clearly. The king knows what he's been through, knows what he's survived. Knows he's strong enough to withstand this. But Anne, who still looks at him with sadness and moves so carefully and gently around him, who knows he's endured but doesn't know what, will simply be afraid. 

“You know he'll tell her.”

“Better him than you.” Aramis shows his heart in his eyes, and concern for his friends always shines through the clearest. He'll be all right. Aramis knows that, but he won't say it convincingly. 

Aramis sighs, but doesn't argue. “Get some rest,” is all he says. “I'll be back in a moment.”

D'Artagnan's asleep again before he is.

⚜

The next time he forces his eyes open, it's to Athos sitting by the bed and holding his hand.

“That bad?” he croaks, trying for levity, but Athos just looks at him with tired, tired eyes.

“I don't know. The fever's still rising, and you sound terrible.” 

D'Artagnan gives his hand a squeeze and lets his eyes drift closed. “I'll be fine.”

“I’m holding you to that.”

He huffs, then coughs. It hurts. Athos’ hand tightens around his. 

“Easy,” he murmurs. “Easy, d'Artagnan. Just breathe.”

⚜

He tosses his head back and forth on the pillow, chasing the relief he knows is there, trying to press his heated skin against the cool linen, but it always warms too quickly.

His heart is pounding in his chest, his lungs struggling to keep time with it. He's burning, he's buzzing, he's exhausted, and he can't keep still.

“D'Artagnan. _D'Artagnan.”_ It's Aramis again, Aramis who takes his face between his hands and forcibly turns it to look at him. It doesn't do much – he can barely open his eyes to slivers. “Slow down,” Aramis says firmly. “You need to slow your breathing, come on. With me, now. Deep breaths.”

“Hot,” is all d'Artagnan can say in response, voice little more than air.

“I know,” Aramis says, “but you're only making it worse. Once you're not about to pass out, I'll get you some water.”

“Water,” d'Artagnan repeats. Suddenly he's very, very thirsty.

“Breathe, d'Artagnan. Slow it down. Follow me.”

Gradually, his racing heart calms, and the buzzing under his skin subsides, but the terrible heat does not. Aramis drapes a damp towel over his forehead and helps him lift his head enough to drink, but it's not enough. It helps, but it's not enough.

⚜

The fever must dip, after that, because it's not as bad. It doesn't break, though, so he still coughs and aches and spends every waking moment fighting against the pull of sleep. His chest is sore, his throat is raw, his skin is perpetually slick with sweat, but the fear around him has turned to simple worry.

That's something, at least. 

“How long?” he asks the next person he wakes to, which happens to be Constance. 

She pauses in the act of wiping his brow. “Two days,” she says; her eyes, once he manages to focus on them, hold as much of her heart as Aramis’ do, and even more concern. “You got so sick, so quickly, we thought… Well, we didn't know _what_ to think. But it seems you're through the worst of it now, and—”

“Anyone else?” he interrupts, then has to stifle a cough. Constance pulls away just enough to reach the cup of water on the bedside table, and helps him take a drink. “Is anyone else sick?” he clarifies once he's able. “The Dauphin?”

“Everyone's fine,” she says. “The Dauphin is adamant that you come back and play with him, your brothers are worried but well, and it's been all we can do to keep the king away, but aside from worrying about you, everyone is perfectly fine.”

“You'll tell me?” he presses. “You'll tell me if that changes?”

“Yes, d'Artagnan,” Constance sighs. “If anyone so much as sneezes, I'll come straight to you.” 

She's humouring him, or mocking him – it doesn't really matter which – but it's still a relief to have her word.

⚜

He sleeps like the dead, and feels just about as lively when awake.

Porthos and Athos are talking quietly, and d'Artagnan, curled on his side with his back to them, can't find the energy to give them any sign of his waking. So he listens, and breathes through the tightness in his chest, and waits for sleep to claim him again.

“—takes time,” Porthos is saying.

“I know, but he's no better now than he was a day ago.”

“Yeah, but he's much better than he was two days ago, right? He's strong. He's fighting. He'll be fine.”

“I don't like it. I don't _understand—”_

“Athos. People get sick. They get better. Life goes on. He's been through a lot that we don't know about; this is just something else we gotta support him through, yeah? Just another chance to show 'im that he's back home, back with us.” 

“'There was no one kind.’ That's what Aramis said.” Quiet footsteps, and Athos’ voice comes closer. “No one to look after him if he was ill or injured.” A gentle hand smoothing over his hair. “I hate to think of it, yet I can't stop.”

“I know. But he's here, now. We weren't too late. Remember that.”

⚜

This is going to be something that they disagree about forever, no matter the arguments they have about it. The others will always insist that Domingo was nothing but cruel and manipulative, and d'Artagnan will always remember the small kindnesses he afforded, and wonder if they were enough to bring the scales to balance.

Because d'Artagnan _had_ been ill, very ill, and Domingo had done more than look after him; he'd _cared_ for him. When d'Artagnan was too sick to stand, Domingo had brought him bread and broth. When he was shuddering with fever, Domingo carried extra wood to his room and kept the fire going through the long winter nights. When he edged into delirium, Domingo grounded him, soothed him, spoke to him in accented French, and d'Artagnan might have imagined it was his brothers, but it had only ever been him.

It may have been Domingo's punishment that caused it, but it was also Domingo who nursed him through it.

So they will never agree, because while d'Artagnan can hold both truths, the others will only admit to the first.

⚜

The fever finally breaks, after nearly two weeks. No one else has fallen ill, so the light quarantine is lifted and Louis is by his side at once.

The illness has gone, but the effects linger - weakness, fatigue, and a dry, painful cough that refuses to clear. He spends another week in bed, sleeping and coughing and sleeping some more, and it seems that the king is with him more often than not. The Dauphin visits, as well, but in his boundless, youthful energy he doesn't understand why d'Artagnan can't simply get up and return to his position, so mostly it's just Louis.

“Up,” Louis says, during a particular nasty coughing fit one morning, and helps him to sit up so he can really put his back into it. After it's done, he has to rest his forehead against his knees for a few moments to catch his breath and let the gray clear from the edges of his vision, and somehow this is where the shame catches up with him: sitting in bed, hugging his knees, the king – the _king_ – sitting beside him and rubbing his back.

For the second time in recent days, he is painfully aware of his scars.

“Charles,” Louis starts, and something in his voice makes d'Artagnan absolutely sure that he doesn't want to have this conversation. 

“They're healed,” he says, somewhere between firm and desperate. “There's no pain, they never got infected, they healed quickly. They're…healed,” he says again.

“I'm glad to hear it,” Louis says calmly. “But I was going to ask you something else.”

“Oh?”

“I wanted to ask— When you first fell sick, I came to see you. I don't think you remember it – you were nearly delirious, scarcely awake at all – but I spoke to you in Spanish, and you reacted...oddly.”

“Oh?” d'Artagnan repeats, this time with infinitely more trepidation.

“You spoke to me as if I were…him.”

“Domingo.”

“Yes. Charles, I only witnessed a small part of your treatment at his hands, so tell me, please: when you needed someone, could you turn to him?”

The unspoken question is all too clear beneath the words, so that is what he answers, with his flattest voice and his gaze resolutely on the rumpled linens at the foot of the bed. 

“He hurt me. He whipped me, he beat me, and when he felt like it, he locked me up and starved me. But once it was over, he tended to me. Made sure the injuries healed, made sure I had enough to eat, made sure I had learned. He wanted to mould me, not kill me.”

“Did he succeed?”

The sounds of the room fade abruptly, replaced by a muted ringing, and he feels as he did that day in the garden, like his mind has stepped out of his body.

“I don't know,” he manages to answer, though his voice seems dull and far away. “I don't know. I don't want— Please don't ask me that.” The ringing is getting louder, and the air is thinning, taking his vision with it. Louis says something, but it's just noise, and d'Artagnan closes his eyes and tries to remember how to breathe.

He comes back to himself a short while later, lying down, with Louis dabbing at his face and neck with cold water and keeping up a litany of murmured apologies.

“It's all right,” d'Artagnan mutters. “It's fine, Henri. It's fine.”

“No it's _not,”_ Louis says, and d'Artagnan doesn't need to open his eyes to see his petulant expression. “I shouldn't have said anything.”

“Even _I_ don't know what's going to set me off. How are _you_ supposed to?” He'd thought he couldn't be any more tired, but God, was he wrong.

“You’ve given so much, Charles. The least I can do is not add to the burden you already carry.”

“It's a burden I carry gladly,” d'Artagnan reminds him. 

“You shouldn't have to carry it at all. But what's done is done,” he adds, before d'Artagnan can find the voice to protest, “and right now, all you need to do for me is rest. Rest, and recover. Can you do that?” 

D'Artagnan nods. He's never been so relieved to be given an order.

⚜

When he’s well enough to be up and about again, the first place he goes is the garden. It’s definitely getting colder, and the stone bench is sure to be frigid, but the thick cloak he’s wearing keeps him warm even as his breath clouds before him. Most of the flowering plants have gone dormant, but the trees and shrubs are still holding onto most of their colorful leaves. 

He sits there a long time, relishing the setting – the sights, the sounds, the smells, the feel. He still needs to remind himself, sometimes, that he truly is home again, however unsteady the word seems to be.

 _Home_ had been Lupiac, until his father was killed.

 _Home_ had been Paris, until he was taken.

And in its own way, _home_ had been Spain, as well. He’d done his best to make it so, after all. Unwaveringly sure that he’d never make it back to France, he had tried at all times to forget his old life and accept his new one.

But now he’s here – here in France, here in Paris – and despite the relief, there’s still some measure of trepidation. How long will this one last? _Is_ it a home, or just another waypoint? If he could make a home from the manor of his captor, surely he can make a home in the palace of his king, but is that what he _wants?_

Decisions have been getting easier, but wanting still escapes him. Much easier to take what he is given and make peace with it, instead.

He’s startled out of his musings (when had his eyes closed?) by a presence settling on the bench beside him. It’s Porthos, and it’s not as hard as it used to be to hide the flinch.

“Sorry,” Porthos says. “Didn’t think you were so out of it that you wouldn’t hear me come up. You all right?”

D’Artagnan nods, and leans over a bit so their shoulders are pressed together. “Just thinking.”

“‘S not too cold out here for you, is it?” There’s no worry or beratement in his voice, just a question. Porthos, for all his depth and nuance, has the gift of being wonderfully uncomplicated when he wants to be. 

“No, it’s nice.” The air is refreshingly crisp, and the leaves scattered on the ground give off a faintly spicy aroma that he can only label as autumn. His eyes seem to have drifted shut again. “Am I needed?”

“Not a bit. Just felt like getting outside, myself, and saw that you’d already taken the best spot.”

“I suppose I can share,” d’Artagnan murmurs. Porthos’ solid warmth is just this side of soporific, and his shoulder is just the right height for d’Artagnan to rest his head against, so he does.

Porthos chuckles. “I’m sure there’re more comfortable places to sleep, pup.”

D’Artagnan hums.

They sit in silence, d’Artagnan hovering in the space between dozing and sleep, Porthos strong and sure against him, holding him up. After some immeasurable while, though, Porthos shifts, dislodging him. “All right, my arse is numb. Mind taking this inside?”

Still half asleep, he lets Porthos pull him up and steer him down the path and into the palace. When he lands on his bed a short time later, it takes him only moments to fall asleep.

⚜

“Charles, ¿quieres comer?”

His eyes fly open; in the dark, the room lit only by a fire in the corner, he can see nothing but the indistinct ceiling, and he is abruptly terrified to move his head and see any more.

“Yo sé que estás cansado,” the other continues, “pero hay comida para ti, y no será tan bueno cuando es frío.”

 _It’s Aramis,_ insists one voice, but a much wearier, far more seasoned one counters it: _es Domingo._ He shuts his eyes, trying to fight the burn of tears rising in the back of his throat. He’d been so sure, _so sure_ that he was free, that he was _home—_

“D’Artagnan?” The hiss and flare of a lamp being lit, then hands are on his face – slim, gentle, calloused. Not Domingo’s. He clutches Aramis’ wrists and _weeps._

Aramis shushes him, kisses his forehead, tries to wipe away the tears spilling down d’Artagnan’s cheeks, but doesn’t pull away from d’Artagnan’s grasp. “Oh, d’Artagnan,” he says softly, “oh, my friend, please forgive me. Shh, it’s all right. You’re home, I promise. You’re home, and you’re safe. It’s all right.”

Eventually, he runs out of tears, and his breathing steadies to the occasional odd tremor. Aramis is sitting on the edge of the bed, one of his hands still caught in d’Artagnan’s, silent but comforting as the last of the emotion trickles away.

“Will you tell me?” he asks at last. “Will you tell me what happened, so I know what to be careful of?”

D’Artagnan sighs, a shaky thing, and lets go of Aramis so he can cover his eyes. “I don’t want to say it more than once.”

“That’s fine. Shall I get the others, or would you rather I tell them what you tell me?”

_Decision._

“Tell them,” d’Artagnan says, before he has the chance to get stuck. “If I don’t...now, I might not.”

“All right.”

“And I don’t want you to say anything. I know what you will, and I’ve already heard it, so… Don’t. Please.”

“You have my word.”

D’Artagnan takes a breath, and begins. “I don’t know how much of Spain you’ve seen, but where we— where I was, there wasn’t really a winter. It just rained. A lot. And it wasn’t _cold,_ so much, but it was still unpleasant.

“Anyway, Domingo had just started me on training his men. They weren’t soldiers, he was retired, but he wanted them to be able to defend his land. I resisted, at first, but he promised me they would never be set against France, and I believed him. So I agreed.

“At first it was just drills, basics, discipline. He wanted me to be harder on them. Some of them were young, some of them were… like me. Taken. I refused to hurt them beyond what was necessary for training. I didn’t see the point. I argued about it with him, told him discipline from fear was useless. He listened to me about many things, but not about that. I kept arguing. One day, I made the mistake of doing it in front of his men. He punished me.”

He shivers a bit at the memory, and presses the heels of his hands more firmly against his eyes.

“I don’t think he wanted to, but I’d put him in that position, so he had to. It could have been worse – he could’ve beaten me. Could’ve let the others beat me. But he didn’t. He just chained me to a hitching post in the courtyard, and left me there for a while.”

“How long?” Aramis asks quietly.

“That night and the next day. It wouldn’t have been bad on its own, more of a time-out than anything, but it was pouring rain, and cold enough to be miserable. I got…really sick, afterwards. I know now that I was overreacting, confused, but at the time I really didn’t know if I would make it.

“I kept expecting Domingo to be furious, to pull me up and tell me to get back to work. Every time the door opened, I was _terrified._ But he wasn’t angry. He took care of me. He _took care of me,_ Aramis, and he did it so well that I thought— sometimes, I thought it was you. I thought I was back at the garrison, and it had all been a bad dream, and then I would open my eyes and remember where I was. Remember _what_ I was.”

There’s a heavy silence, then Aramis taps his hand. “Can you look at me, please?”

D’Artagnan uncovers his eyes, and looks cautiously over at Aramis. There’s no judgement in his eyes, no anger, no grief. Only understanding.

“What do you need?” Aramis asks. “What do you need from us?” 

“Patience. I know it’s frustrating—”

“D’Artagnan, what you’ve gone through has been far harder on you than it could ever be on us. Helping you heal doesn’t hurt us, I promise.”

“Hurt, no, but annoy?” He sighs, looks back up at the ceiling. “I know it’s frustrating, because it’s frustrating for _me._ I never know how I’ll react, what I’ll remember, what I won’t be able to handle. It’s _infuriating._ ”

“I know,” Aramis says calmly. “Believe me, I do. But worrying about yourself leaves you with a big enough job, don’t you think? You don’t need to be worrying about us, as well.”

“You say that, but whenever I talk about what it was like, you all always want to argue, always want to tell me what _really_ happened. So yes, if I want to avoid that, I _do_ need to worry about you.”

Aramis goes still.

“Is that what you believe, d’Artagnan?” His voice is smaller, somehow, than it was a moment ago. “That it is your responsibility to predict, at every turn, the emotions and reactions of everyone around you? That you must shape them and guide them away from you? That you’ll be punished for letting your guard down, even for a moment?”

“Yes,” d’Artagnan admits. “I’m trying, but I can’t stop. Not all the way.”

“No wonder you’re exhausted,” Aramis sighs. “Shall I tell that to the others, too? So we can stop contributing to it?”

“Please.” He hadn’t even known that that was something weighing on him, but now that it’s been voiced he feels far less beaten down. “And maybe...not Spanish, for a little while. At least until I’m back to normal.”

“Of course. Thank you, for telling me all of this. I know it wasn’t easy. _Isn’t_ easy. Now, do you think you can eat? Or would you like to go back to sleep?”

“You said the food wouldn’t be good cold,” d’Artagnan reminds him.

“That's far from important right now. What do you _want?”_

“Sleep.”

Aramis stands; the bed creaks slightly. “Then sleep, my friend. I’ll see you in the morning.”

⚜

Morning dawns late and pale, but d’Artagnan feels much more himself. He only lingers in bed a few moments before stretching and pushing himself up. On the table by the window is a pitcher of water, some fruit and meat, and a small loaf of bread. The bread is still warm enough to steam when he tears it open, and smells deliciously of yeast. He inhales the scent unabashedly, and is almost surprised to realise that he’s famished.

“Life goes on,” d’Artagnan murmurs to himself, recalling Porthos’ words, and takes a bite.

It tastes like home.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, and triple XL thanks to fandomlver for enabling me and letting me put my grubby hands on this incredible 'verse. As always, please feel free to leave any feedback you'd like to!


End file.
